


Friend of a Friend

by boredshyandbi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bonding over food, Gen, M/M, Season/Series 04, The Magnus Archives Season 4, canon-atypical communication, episode 149, georgie finally has someone to get hungarian food with, it's season 4 so angst is a given, maybe the real archives were the friends we made along the way, there is a 16th fear but it's not a fear it's the power of friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29765628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boredshyandbi/pseuds/boredshyandbi
Summary: “The things Jon said about you,” Georgie said, pausing. She was unsure if telling Martin that Jon, or at least the Jonathan Sims of a year and a half ago, had seemed to be madly in love with him was the best move to make. “They were good.”Martin blinked at her wordlessly. Georgie could tell he was trying desperately hard not to hope, she could see the struggle in the way his hand clenched around the tape recorder, in the way the hazy air buzzed and danced around him.Before Georgie could change her mind, she said, “It helped him, talking about you.”Or, that conversation from MAG 149 goes a bit differently, Georgie finds someone to eat Hungarian food with, and Martin, against his better judgement, makes a friend.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Martin Blackwood, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 131





	Friend of a Friend

“Excuse me. Excuse me, this area is off-limits to the public.”

Georgie had heard that one before. Making friends in the ghost-hunting business tended to end in situations that left Georgie in places she shouldn’t be.

Georgie searched for the source of the noise, but her admonisher was nowhere to be seen in the empty hallway. She moved from the spot beside a ridiculously austere portrait of a man with cold eyes where she’d been leaning up against the wall, and scanned her surroundings. 

“Sorry?”

And then she spotted him, a peering face watching her from behind a door just slightly cracked open. 

“You can’t be here,” he repeated stubbornly, stepping forward. “It’s not allowed.”

Authority didn’t come naturally to his voice. Georgie could tell by the way he was holding his chin, and the flatness of his tone.

He seemed oddly small for someone of his height, and Georgie had to focus extra hard when she looked at him, or else her gaze would slide from his eyes to the patch of wall on his left. It was hard to pick him out from the dreary background of the Institute, the outline of his face just as fuzzy against the dark walls as the jumper he wore. The air around seemed to shimmer slightly, as if a faint fog had crept into the office and was spilling out behind him, although Georgie knew this could just be an influence of her sleep deprivation. Melanie was getting better but there were still the nightmares.

Still, Georgie had the oddest feeling that she was looking at a ghost. “Oh, sorry, um, Melanie told me to wait for her here.”

Mild annoyance shifted to surprise as the man’s eyebrows unknit. “Oh, you —you’re here for Melanie?”

Georgie nodded and approached him cautiously, worried he’d fade away if she got too close. 

“Yeah. Georgie,” she introduced herself.

His eyes widened and the brash exterior completely fell away. “I’m sorry — sorry, I didn’t realise. I’m—I’m sure she’s around here somewhere,” he stammered apologetically.

Georgie studied him. She noticed he was holding a tape recorder in his right hand. This place and its bloody tape recorders.

Georgie was certain that there was something strangely familiar about him. Round glasses, curly hair, wide shoulders, big, soft hands. The checklist aligned with the descriptions she’d gleaned from Jon’s rambles, and in an instant Georgie recognised the man.

“You must be Martin.” 

Jon’s Martin. 

Albeit, a dimmer, less opaque Martin than the version she’d been led to imagine.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, caught off guard. “Has Melanie been talking about me?”

“Oh, um…” She paused, not sure if she should continue, but Martin was watching her expectantly, so she did. “Jon used to go on about you a lot.”

That was definitely an understatement. During the time that Jon had stayed with her before—well, just before—Georgie had thought that talking about Martin had become Jon’s go-to verbal evasive maneuver, but she’d begun to wonder if it wasn’t really intentional.

Martin stared at her, recognition dawning in his eyes. “Oh. Oh, wait—wait, I thought Melanie-Georgie and Jon-Georgie were…” 

“Same—same Georgie,” she cut in. It had been a long time since she’d been Jon’s Georgie.

“Oh. Ah, so you and Jon…” Martin trailed off meaningfully.

“Aren’t really talking anymore,” she finished for him. 

“Right,” Martin said awkwardly, pursing his lips.

Despite the distant look in his eyes and the tape recorder, or maybe because of those things, Martin reminded Georgie an awful lot of Jon when he’d first shown up at her flat a year and a half ago.

She had tried with Jon. She’d been there for him, even when she shouldn’t have been. God, he hadn’t spoken to her in years, rarely ever got in touch with her except for the occasional happy birthday text, but there he was on her door step, a murder suspect. And Georgie  _ had _ tried. She’d told him to stop. She’d offered him help. She’d wanted to trust him. She’d wanted to believe him when he said he’d simply lost his job. She’d wanted to believe him when he said he could be better. But she couldn’t ignore the blood soaked into his shoes and the ugly burns on his hand and the way his  _ face  _ looked after he recorded a statement—after her statement. 

After a while, Georgie had realised that no matter how many promises Jon made, no matter how many times she managed to squeeze some nugget of the truth out of him, her help wouldn’t be enough. He didn’t want to get better, so he was only ever going to get worse.

And then—she’d seen him with his heart stopped. She’d seen him dead. 

And now he wasn’t.

Now, he had a  _ hunger, _ and Georgie had listened to Melanie’s descriptions of how he satiated it.

Georgie didn’t know what he was—she didn’t even know if he was human—but she was glad she’d stopped trying to save Jon from himself. It was a losing battle.

Georgie had promised herself that she’d stay as far away from the Institute as she could while being there for Melanie, and Melanie alone. Yet, here was Martin, very much on the same destructive path, determined to be alone, to handle everything himself because he believed it was the only way, and no one was trying to convince him otherwise.

There was hesitance there. His stubbornness was flimsy. Trying to stop Jon would have been like running full tilt at an oncoming train, but Georgie didn’t think it could hurt to try helping Martin, just this once.

“The things Jon said about you,” Georgie said, pausing. She was unsure if telling Martin that Jon, or at least the Jonathan Sims of a year and a half ago, had seemed to be madly in love with him was the best move to make. “They were good.”

Martin blinked at her wordlessly. Georgie could tell he was trying desperately hard not to hope, she could see the struggle in the way his hand clenched around the tape recorder, in the way the hazy air buzzed and danced around him.

Before Georgie could change her mind, she said, “It helped him, talking about you.”

It was true. It had helped. At least while Jon was staring all misty-eyed into the depths of his tea, he couldn’t fuss over those awful statements.

“I got the impression you were close,” Georgie added cautiously.

Martin cast his eyes downward, and Georgie was surprised to see guilt written all over his face. Something had come loose, or clicked into place, Georgie wasn’t sure. There was something softer in the lines of Martin’s mouth.

“I—we don’t really talk much anymore,” he said quietly. Georgie’s eyes involuntarily slid from Martin’s face again. “I can’t,” Martin explained. “Not since…” He glanced back at the office behind him.

Melanie had said something about Martin getting a promotion working as an assistant to the new head of the Institute, but Georgie didn’t understand why this meant he couldn’t talk to Jon.

It was so quiet in this place. Someone had to do the talking. 

And the more she looked at Martin, the more Georgie saw herself. She wasn’t doing this for Jon. No, Georgie was doing it because she knew what it was like to love Jonathan Sims. She knew how hard it was.

Georgie sighed. “Look, I don’t really know much about what’s going on around here lately, but I’m certain that isolation won’t help anything. If you can’t talk to anyone here, if it’s in your contract or whatever, you can talk to me.”

Martin’s mouth formed a small O, but he was silent.

“Not about the Institute, but we can talk about whatever you like,” Georgie continued. “Even Jon, minus the monster bits, of course.”

Martin wasn’t saying anything. Georgie suspected that if he said something, it would have to be a “no.”

Still, she could see that he wanted to accept.

The least she could do was give him the option. Georgie pulled out her notepad (she liked to carry one to jot down any ideas for spooky segments on  _ What the Ghost? _ and because it made her look smart even when she was just doodling), and scribbled her number down. She tore the page out and handed it to Martin.

He took it tentatively. “O-okay.”

Georgie couldn’t help wondering what exactly had made Martin change his mind in that instant.

“If you want to grab lunch this weekend, I’m free Saturday. Please tell me you like Hungarian food,” she begged. “ I can never get Melanie to go.”

“I—yes, I think so.”

“Brilliant.” Georgie nodded approvingly. There was hope for Martin Blackwood yet.

As if only just now noticing the tape recorder in his hand was still running, Martin began to back away toward the office. “I should probably get back to work,” he said, and Georgie could have been imagining it, but his voice seemed to fade out mid-sentence.

Georgie gave him a brief little wave and resumed waiting for Melanie to turn up. 

* * *

Martin wasn’t going to call. He really wasn’t.

He shouldn’t. He couldn’t. If Peter found out—

Martin was not supposed to grab lunch or make friends. There was a part of him that didn’t want to, a part that recoiled at the thought of sitting close to another person, being watched and listened to. Martin had half a mind to tear up the sheet with Georgie’s number on it, and to pretend none of this had ever happened.

But there was no erasing the fact that he had taken the piece of paper in the first place. 

He hadn’t meant to.

But then Georgie had said… 

_ The things Jon said about you, they were good. _

And Martin had to know.

Martin bit back a bitter laugh. Jon, always Jon. God, Martin was so predictable.

You’d think it would have changed after Jon had died, after Martin had made his deal with Peter, but it hadn’t.

So, of course, Martin was going to call. It wasn’t like he’d actually had any other option.

It would be a one time thing, Martin told himself as he dialed Georgie’s number.

Besides, it was just lunch.

But it wasn’t. Nothing was just lunch anymore, not for him.

By the time Martin arrived at the quaint little restaurant, Georgie was already there waiting for him, a menu propped up in her hands.

Martin hadn’t meant to be late, but time was harder for him these days, and he had to be careful on the Tube or he’d get knocked in the shoulder or the side by the crowds. People didn’t really seem to see him until they bumped into him, but Martin didn’t mind much.

Georgie waved him over, indicating a starter on the table before her. “Martin, you have got to try this.”

Martin hesitated, but joined her at the table, studying the dish. It looked to be some sort of cheese spread, faintly orange, and smeared over thick slices of bread.

Georgie motioned encouragingly. “It’s Körözött.”

Martin picked up a slice of bread and took a tentative bite.

Georgie watched him proudly.

Martin swallowed, surprised as the warmth of the spice flooded his tongue. “Sheep’s cheese?”

Georgie nodded, her eyes bright. “And paprika.”

Martin took another bite. He had to admit that Georgie had been right about Hungarian food. “That is really good.”

Georgie passed him a menu. “ _ Thank  _ you. Melanie says it’s too salty.” 

Martin shook his head emphatically and began to scan the menu.

Georgie recommended something called marhapörkölt, which she assured Martin was some sort of beef stew, and Martin ordered it. So far, he hadn’t been disappointed by Georgie’s tastes.

Georgie was the first to speak once the menus had been cleared away. “We never really talked, did we? I saw you when Jon was in hospital, but there wasn’t much to say.”

Martin had just been getting used to the comfortable din of the other customers chatting at the surrounding tables, but Georgie’s questions jarred him. He’d almost forgotten she was there.

“No,” he said. “We didn’t.”

Martin didn’t say anything else. It had been a long while since he’d been made to hold a proper conversation, much less one with someone he hardly knew. Georgie Barker had always been a friend of a friend, nothing more.

Now, Martin supposed he didn’t have any friends. The realisation sat low in his chest. Martin didn’t mind much. There was a layer of nothing between him and the world, and minding things didn’t feel as important as it used to. 

Georgie stared at him, unfazed by the silence. “Actually, it was Jon who introduced me to this place.”

“Jon likes Hungarian food?” Martin asked, suddenly curious.

Georgie rolled her eyes disapprovingly. “He hates it.” She leaned in and lowered her voice conspiratorially, as if sharing a sensitive secret. “It was part of the reason we broke up.”

Martin blinked at her.

Georgie smiled at him, the corners of her mouth slowly creeping upward. “I’m kidding,” she stage-whispered. 

Martin nodded, feeling stupid.

“We came here for my birthday once,” Georgie was saying. “That was ages ago.”

Back when Martin had cared enough to be jealous, it had been easy to imagine a younger Jon, sitting across a table from some face-less Jon-Georgie, smiling at her, holding her hands, but now the idyllic scene wouldn’t fit together in his mind.

“I thought Jon doesn’t like celebrating birthdays,” Martin said.

“He doesn’t like celebrating  _ his  _ birthday,” Georgie corrected. “I found that out the hard way.” Georgie’s playful smile returned, but for the first time, Martin noticed how it was strained at the edges. “Never try to plan a surprise party for Jonathan Sims,” she warned.

“What happened?”

Georgie shook her head slightly. “I don’t know how he found out, but he came to me the day before, and asked me how I wanted him to react when the surprise took place.”

“Seriously?” Martin asked, half horrified and half amused.

“Yep,” said Georgie. “It didn’t even occur to him that he could, you know, just tell me he didn’t want a party.”

Martin smiled wryly. Jon was certainly not known for his aptitude for communication.

“We managed a surprise party for him once,” he told Georgie. “Caught him in his office.”

“Smart.”

Martin nodded, reminiscing. “It was really all Tim’s idea. He—” Martin faltered, shocked that the words had clogged in his throat.

The fog was usually enough to numb him. Martin wasn’t sure what had gone wrong.

“I think we’ve got it on tape somewhere,” he finished.

Georgie wrinkled her nose. “I’ve definitely had enough of tapes. For weeks after Jon stayed at my flat, I kept finding blank ones scattered around, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the nefarious doings of some eldritch god of fear.”

They settled into silence again, but not because the conversation was over. Martin was working up the courage that had been burning at the back of his mind for over a year now.

“When Jon left the Institute,” Martin started. “Why did he go to Melanie?”

_ And not me? _ Martin didn’t need to say these last three words for his meaning to be understood.

Georgie sighed, her face softening. “He couldn’t. He thought you were being watched, that they’d expect him to turn to you.”

_ Everyone I’ve talked to says you and him were close. _

“He wanted to,” Georgie insisted.

Martin folded his hands on the table. It was a few minutes before he could look at Georgie again. “Everyone was saying he was a murderer, but I kept telling myself that he would never do something like that.” Martin’s voice broke, but the tears had long since dried up. “I knew he wouldn’t.”

“He told me about the dog,” Georgie said, a sly smile spreading across her face.

Martin looked up confused. “The dog?”

“In the Archives.”

“Oh,” Martin said, the residual embarrassment returning with blinding clarity. He’d spent much of his first year in the Archives trying to forget that first encounter with Jon. That was back when Martin’s regrets had been harmless, easy things. That day seemed so far away now.

“He said you couldn’t look him in the eyes without apologising for a month,” Georgie said, not doing a great job of holding in a snicker.

Martin groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“Did he yell?”

Martin shook his head. “He threatened to fire me though.”

Georgie snorted. “Really?”

“Well, erm, the dog left us a bit of a…surprise in one of the file boxes,” Martin said sheepishly.

“Did Jon find it himself?”

“Thank God, no. But you should have seen his face when he got a look at the mess.”

“Oh, he does the—the…” Georgie gestured vaguely with her hand, grasping for the memory.

Suddenly, her eyes lit up with the realisation. “The eyebrow thing!” she finished, triumphantly, scrunching her eyebrows together and glaring at Martin to illustrate. It was a scarily accurate impression.

Martin laughed breathily, recalling Jon’s angry face with ease. “Yeah, and then he presses his lips together when he’s too cross to speak.”

Georgie nodded, modifying her facial expression.

Martin pointed at her, indicating his approval. “Spot on.”

The pair of them burst into giggles. Martin’s face hurt from this exercise in smiling.

Georgie took a moment to regain her breath, sobering a bit. “I don’t think he’s still truly angry about it.”

“No?” The question leaped from Martin’s throat before he could even register asking it.

Georgie considered. “No, I don’t think so. He had this ridiculous look on his face when he told me the story. I don’t know, sort of like he was trying to swallow a smile.”

Martin inclined his head, trying to locate this expression in his extensive mental library of Jon-faces. “I don’t think I’ve seen that one. Where is it on a scale from told-you-so smirk to just-seen-an-adorable-cat-picture smile?”

Georgie shrugged. “Not sure. I always thought of it as his Martin smile.”

Martin froze. “What?”

“His Martin smile,” Georgie repeated, although Martin had heard her perfectly clear.

Martin’s chest was doing something funny, and he was almost certain that somewhere alarm bells were going off for Peter.

Martin cleared his throat. “I—uh, wasn’t aware he had one.”

“Oh,” said Georgie. Martin could tell she didn’t believe him.

Martin thought of Jon, sitting on the floor beside him in the document storage room, worms pounding against the door.

_ A ghost? Really? _

_ Shut up, Martin. _

Martin remembered the hesitant smile that had found its way onto Jon’s face in that moment, and realised that he  _ had  _ seen the Martin smile.

Mercifully, their food arrived right then, and Martin finally had an excuse to not talk, instead drowning his sorrows in a phenomenal bowl of marhapörkölt.

Georgie looked up at him from her chicken paprikash. “So, you still write poetry?”

Martin nearly choked on a spoonful of stew. “Sorry?”

“Jon mentioned it,” she answered casually. “Said you left behind some recordings when you moved out of the Archives.”

So,  _ that’s  _ where those tapes had gotten to. “I don’t—I don’t really have the time anymore."

“With your promotion?”

Martin nodded, dutifully sipping at his pörkölt.

Georgie didn’t push him to say more.

Martin paused. “He…listened to all of my tapes?”

Georgie shrugged once again. “I would guess so.”

Martin felt like face-palming. That couldn’t be good. He had gone through a bit of a love poems phase.

Georgie was watching him curiously, but a boldness had come over Martin. He felt more solid—more  _ there _ —than he had in months.

“Did he say anything else about me?”

Georgie smirked knowingly, and with a pang, Martin realised how much the expression reminded him of Sasha—or that thing that was her, he couldn’t tell.

“Well,” Georgie said. “He organised my kitchen using something he called MBMOS.” Georgie pronounced the acronym like “mibmos.”

Tim had come up with the name. Martin hadn’t even known Jon knew about it. “The Martin Blackwood Mug Organisation System,” Martin recited.

Georgie nodded. “Yeah, that. He said from left to right it was supposed to go from most plain and conservative to the wackier slogans and images, and then from back to front it’s tallest to shortest.”

“And souvenir cups in the rear,” Martin added. “Everyone always forgets about the souvenir cups.”

Georgie hummed in agreement. “It was good for him, I think. Took his mind off of everything for a bit.”

Georgie chewed thoughtfully, sifting through her memories of Jon. “He also got bored enough to read this book on handwriting analysis I had lying around, and spent like half an hour talking about how you write your ‘w’s,” she finally told him. “Something about rounded letters and creativity.”

“Oh,” said Martin, urgently wanting to know more, but not wanting to ask again.

Luckily, Georgie didn’t seem to be finished. “He spent a whole afternoon making tea, trying to get it right. He kept mumbling to himself ‘that’s not how Martin makes it’ over and over.” Georgie pressed her fingers to her temple. “Gave me a headache.”

Horrified, Martin felt his ears begin to burn. That wasn’t right. He hadn’t blushed since the fog had come.

“Sorry,” he said, although he wasn’t really sure why he said it.

“He said you apologised too much,” Georgie added.

“Yeah,” said Martin, staring at his spoon.

Silence fell, the tidal, sweeping silence that Martin had become well acquainted with.

To fill it, Georgie launched into a story about a stalker fan who’d stood outside her flat for hours, reciting segments from the latest  _ What the Ghost? _ episode.

Georgie didn’t ask about the Institute or Peter. Martin didn’t ask about Melanie.

And so, the rest of the meal passed.

“Hey, if you want to do this again sometime, I should be free again this time next week,” Georgie said as they stood from the table, on their way out.

Martin gaped at her, mystified, but found himself saying, “Okay.”

Georgie grinned. “Right. Have a nice day, Martin.”

Martin watched her go, deeply confused. Certainly, this couldn’t be just about Hungarian food. But why would have Georgie Barker invited Martin to lunch twice now? And why was Martin so willing to take her up on her second offer as well?

Martin thought he was developing a bit of a headache himself.

* * *

If Georgie was surprised the first time that Martin had accepted her invitation, she was downright shocked the following Saturday when Martin called, asking about lunch.

Georgie had been working on the script for her next episode ( a pirate one because her listeners always went wild for the pirate-y stuff) but she decided that it could wait. Plus, the Admiral kept trying to sit on her laptop, pressing the keys with his bum, and it wasn’t exactly the most productive setting.

“Actually,” she said. “Melanie’s out. Would you like to come over? I can order takeaway and you can meet the Admiral.”

Georgie sandwiched her phone between her shoulder and her ear, leaving her arms free to gently remove the Admiral from her lap. He gave her his best look of feline disapproval. 

Martin was quiet for a few seconds. Georgie thought he was going to outright refuse to meet her, but instead his voice came crackling over the phone, “The…Admiral?”

“Not a real Admiral,” Georgie clarified. “He’s my cat.”

“Oh,” said Martin, perking up a bit. “Alright.”

“How about curry?” suggested Georgie. 

“Sure.”

He sounded so small over the phone.

“Here, I’ll text you my address.”

There was that silence that Georgie had begun to grow used to.

“Thank you for this, Georgie.” There was something fragile in his voice.

“No big deal,” Georgie answered lightly, because it was easier if they pretended it was all just lunch.

* * *

“I think he likes you,” Georgie pointed out, amused.

No sooner had Martin taken a seat on her couch than the Admiral had sidled up to him, draping his tail against Martin’s trouser leg.

Martin looked down, and stroked the cat’s head fondly. There was that ghostly sort of half-smile that Georgie had been pleased to see more and more frequently.

Georgie passed him a plastic spoon.

“He’s very friendly,” Martin observed, petting the Admiral along the back now.

“He can get pretty territorial around people he doesn’t like.”

“Oh?”

“I tend to bring around people I think he will like,” Georgie explained. “Makes things easier.” 

The Admiral nuzzled a bit closer to Martin’s leg.

“Did he—did he like Jon?”

Georgie swallowed a spoonful of curry. “Oh, yeah. Followed him everywhere. Crazy cat even tried to sit next to him while Jon was recording statements.”

Martin whistled in admiration. “Brave cat.”

Georgie wondered if the Admiral would like Jon if he would have met him for the first time now that Jon was…not strictly human.

Georgie sighed. “Honestly, it feels like he talked more to the cat than to me. He was here for over a  _ month  _ before I could get him to tell me anything—about the murders, the Institute, everything.”

“Yeah,” Martin agreed. “He, uh—he does that.”

Georgie remembered well. “Communication is  _ not  _ his strong suit.”

_ “Tell me what to say, Georgie.” _

Georgie had felt so exhausted. It had all been so much work.

_ “I’m not going to tell you to say ‘I love you’ back, but you’re supposed to say  _ something _!” _

_ “What’s the right thing to say? What am I supposed to say?” _

_ “There’s no  _ right  _ way to go about a relationship, Jon. It’s supposed to be natural.” _

_ “Well, it’s not.” _

_ Silence. _

_ “That’s not what I meant Georgie. I just—I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I? Look, I'm not good at this.” _

Georgie had tried so hard, but there was no making him get it.

_ “Good at what?” _

_ “I don’t know. At knowing what you want from me?” _

He talked about them like their relationship was a puzzle to solve. 

_ “I don’t want anything  _ from  _ you.” _

_ “Georgie—” _

_ “Forget it.” _

Georgie couldn’t have all the answers for him. 

“That’s really why we broke up,” she told Martin. “It wasn’t because of the Hungarian food.”

Martin didn’t ask. Georgie was grateful. 

“Sometimes, I don’t think he quite knows how to be a person,” Georgie said quietly.

Martin went still. “Do you think he still is? A person?”

Georgie knew what Melanie thought. To Melanie, Jon was the hand carving her leg with a scalpel, the monster with the starved look in his eyes, hungry to know.

Georgie let out a tired breath. “I don’t know.”

The Admiral mewed and Georgie reached down to pat his head.

* * *

“So, you met Jon at uni?” Martin asked, wanting to steer the conversation away from the break up.

“Yep.” Georgie looked up at him. “Guess I’ve told it backwards, huh?”

The Admiral slinked away, padding into the kitchen. Martin watched him go.

A faraway look had come over Georgie’s face. “We were at Balliol College together.” And then so abruptly that it startled Martin, she laughed. “Jon had dyed hair back then.”

Martin’s jaw dropped. “Dyed?”

Georgie nodded. “A streak of purple right at the front.”

Martin tried to picture the Jonathan Sims he knew with bright purple hair, and promptly devolved into a mess of giggles.

“I think it was a bit of a rebellious phase for him. His grandmother was pretty strict.”

These days, Jon’s rebelliousness manifested more in the manner of running off and doing something stupid that could get him killed. Martin thought he’d prefer the purple hair.

“I sat next to him in English,” Georgie continued. “He was a bit of a know-it-all but cute, so I asked him out. I can’t feel fear, so I suppose that gives me an advantage.”

“An advantage against what?”

Georgie grinned. “Isn’t it obvious? Against the fifteenth fear: the treacherous friend zone.”

_ Sixteenth fear,  _ Martin wanted to correct her. But he couldn’t, so he just laughed instead.

Georgie’s smile drooped slightly. “I don’t regret dating Jon, but I’m glad that it ended when it did. There was a time when I thought I loved him, but I don’t think we were ever going to make it work.”

Martin nodded faintly. “Yeah.”

“And you?”

Martin wasn’t sure he  _ could  _ love anymore. “I—I don’t know.” 

Martin had loved Jon for so long, felt that ache for years, that even now that he’d lost sight of it, it was hard to believe that it had gone away entirely. He was here, wasn’t he? Sitting on Georgie Barker’s couch with takeaway curry perched on his lap. That had to count for something.

Georgie reached for Martin’s hand, and for a moment, Martin was convinced that her fingers would simply pass through his wrist. But they didn’t. Georgie squeezed gently. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him.

“I don’t pretend to know what’s going on in there, but what I do know is that Jon doesn’t always know what’s good for him. And  _ you  _ are,” she said softly. “Good for him.”

Martin bit his lip. There it was, the sting at the back of his throat, the missing. He’d thought he’d lost it for good.

They sat in silence for a while, but it wasn’t like the silence in Peter’s office. It didn’t feel empty.

It was Georgie who finally spoke. “You know, there’s this French pastry shop I’ve been meaning to try. It’s not far from the Institute.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Martin stammered. “Sounds good.”

Georgie smiled at him brightly, and as Martin helped her clear up, it occurred to him that he’d just made a friend.

It didn’t fix anything. He’d still have to go in on Monday, another statement about the Extinction waiting for him at his desk. 

But, still, it was nice.


End file.
